


closer than brandy snaps

by the_most_beautiful_broom



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - The Great British Bake Off Fusion, Christmas, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-20
Updated: 2018-12-20
Packaged: 2019-09-23 04:49:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17073770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_most_beautiful_broom/pseuds/the_most_beautiful_broom
Summary: Clarke agrees to come back to the Great British Bake Off to film a holiday special, but doesn't expect the competition to be as incredible as he'd seemed on earlier seasons.





	closer than brandy snaps

**Author's Note:**

> I've watched entirely too much GBBO in the past month, and it pretty clearly shows in this fic. I hope you like it!!

_Dear Miss Griffin,_

_As you may or may not have heard, Netflix has approached our show with the prospect of a holiday special. We take the top bakers from seasons past and put them in the tent for an episode to air on Christmas day, with the signature, technical, and showstopper challenges all having a holiday theme. While it does seem a large ask to take a weekend so close to Christmas, the day will conclude with a Christmas festival, which your friends and family will be most welcome to attend. We do hope you’ll consider returning to the tent; please let us know your response by November 17th._

_Kind Regards,_

_Mary Berry and Paul Hollywood_

Clarke sincerely doubted that the hosts themselves had written the email, but she sent back an immediate ‘happy to accept’ all the same. Being back in the tent wasn’t the most traditional Christmas, sure, but it beat sitting in her mom and Kane’s living room and staring at the ceiling, wishing all her friends weren’t so dang happy in their own lives that they could grant her misery some company.

Maybe misery was an exaggeration.

But boredom, surely, and Scrooge energy.

She didn’t mind Christmas, she just thought it was entirely too big of a deal for a holiday engineered to stress people out and get them to spend money. So saying yes to the Great British Bakeoff’s holiday special was a decision that was made as soon as she saw the header on the email.

She’d lost the season a couple years back, in the semi-finals, where, as Paul loved to predict, the winner of bread week always was. Her showstopper was mini strawberry shortcakes and they were gorgeous, but the winner had absolutely deserved it (Gina had made three dozen beautiful tea cakes, layering white chocolate genoise, pistachio dacquoise and raspberry cream; when Clarke tasted it, she was almost discouraged to never bake again). She’d happily cheered for her friend, and been content to going back to baking for her friends and the gallery.

Riding the train up to an estate in the North, though, that brought back memories.

She didn’t like to sleep in public, but watching the rich green terrain speed by outside her window was as much rest as she really needed. It was so calming, so beautiful, so much bigger than her or a little competition.

Besides, she’d watched a couple of the specials from years ago; the Christmas competition only featured three bakers, and was significantly less pressure than the normal seasons.

“Clarke Griffin?”

She looked away from the scenery when her name was called, turning to the door of the train car to find she recognized the man standing there. Brown eyes, freckles, broad shoulders under an woolen jumper, curls that had launched a million crushes across the country when season 2 had premiered: this was Bellamy Blake.

If she remembered correctly, he’d taken up baking after his sister was in school; he’d always cooked for them, just to put food on the table, since they hadn’t always had it easy. Once she was off in college, he made cookies to send in care packages, and he kind of spiraled out of control since then. He’d lost in week seven, when the year’s youngest competitor—Christine? Caroline? No, Charlotte—hadn’t been able to get her mousse to set during the technical and burst into tears. After she tried four different times, the film crew caught Bellamy switching their mousses in the refrigerator; he presented a sopping tiramisu to the judges, Charlotte won first place in the technical, and Bellamy was sent home. In his exit interview, he’d shrugged, saying it wasn’t really his scene anyways, and baking was about spreading joy anyways, so he was happy with how he’d done.

In the present, Clarke lifted her feet from the seat across from her, crossing her ankles and motioning for Bellamy to sit. He did.

“I wondered who else they’d get for this,” Clarke offered, when he didn’t seem to want to say anything.

Bellamy made a gesture like ‘ta da, it’s me’, and shrugged. “Yeah. I wonder who our third is.”

Clarke tilted her head. “They don’t take winners, right?”

“Ouch.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Yeah, yeah. I don’t think they do? And you’re what, season 4?”

“Five,” she corrected, not having expected to him to know. “So probably someone from this year’s competition.”

Bellamy nodded, looking out the window. “That’s what I was thinking. Someone people remember.”

Clarke bit her tongue to keep from saying ‘everyone remembers you’. Instead, she looked out the window too. Being winter, the days were short, and the golden hour was settling over the fields. It was a pretty sight, always was. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable, but Clarke still blurted the first thing that came to mind. “Did you sister graduate?”

Bellamy looked over at her quickly, and she felt the weight of his eyes, but continued to look out the window. After a moment, he looked away. “She did, yeah.”

“And did you end up going back to school? I think I remember that was the plan...”

This time she had to meet his gaze, because he wasn’t looking away. When she did, his face was a wash of flattered confusion. When she raised an eyebrow, he shook his head, shook himself. “Sorry. I’m surprised you remember me, that’s all.”  

Clarke lifted a shoulder. “You recognized me?”

“Well, yeah, but that’s different.”

It really wasn’t, and she was curious to know the distinction. “How different?”

“For starters,” Bellamy said, and if she’d known him better, she’d recognize the strain in his voice as nerves. “Yours was a later season.”

“Only by a couple months.”

“You almost won the thing.”

“You could have.”

“Nah, I don’t think so.”

The funny thing was, it wasn’t false modesty. He wasn’t waiting for affirmation, he just really didn’t think he could’ve done it.

Clarke shrugged. “I mean, think of all the people you beat out to even be on the show. And, they brought you back to compete with me, so you’ve got to be pretty good.”

He considered that. “I guess. It’s just weird to be recognized for something I did years ago.”

“I get that. You tell a bit of your life to a camera and then suddenly all of Britain knows it. Also what you look like when you cry.”

Bellamy tilted his head. “Did you ever cry?”

“I never cry.”

He chuckled, then looked back out the window. Silence fell again, and Clarke took the opportunity to study his profile. Years had been good to him, since the season. His jawline—she’d seen novels written about it on twitter—was obscured by a beard, and it aged him, but it was a good look. He looked...sturdy was a weird word to use, but he just looked more steady than he had on TV. Maybe that was the cost of meeting someone in person.

“I did.”

Clarke’s mind raced, trying to put meaning behind Bellamy’s words, wondering what she’d asked.

“Not like a fancy university or anything,” he clarified, and she was all caught up now, “But I got a degree in Ancient Civ.”

She wondered how the internet hadn’t picked up on that: the kind-hearted older brother from season two, with heart of gold and arms like steel was a brooding historian to boot. Before she knew it, there was a soft smile on her face. Clarke kind of liked that she had a secret, knew something extra about this guy that half the country had been in love with at some point.

“Greek, Rome, Egypt...I don’t know, Persia?”

“Yeah,” Bellamy said, and it took a moment for Clarke to realize he meant that either he had four degrees, or his degree covered all of them. She honestly wasn’t sure which.

“Well alright,” she said, because she couldn’t think of anything else.

The trip was almost over anyways.

At the platform where she and Bellamy unboarded, Clarke was pulling her coat tighter behind her when she heard a dramatic moan.

“Oh you’ve got to be kidding me.”

She looked at Bellamy, sure her expression of disbelief mirrored his, but turned to match the voice with the face they’d gotten to know so well this last season: Murphy.

He’d lost in the finals when the eggs had curdled in the ice cream for his baked alaska. He was an audience favorite for the never-ending stream of snark he shot at Paul; Mel and Sue just delighted in hanging around his bench, so the cameras followed him a lot.

“No jokes, just Christmas,” Clarke said cheerily, sticking out her hand. “I’m Cl—”

“Yeah I know, and you’re Bellamy,” Murphy said, shaking her hand but still looking agitated. “I was kind of hoping for less competition.”

“I think that’s a compliment?” Bellamy shook Murphy’s hand too, and the latter shrugged, leading them off the platform to a driver in front of a van, their names printed on a sign he held.

“Don’t get used to it. Same crap hotel, you think?”

It was, indeed, in the same crap hotel.

That was the part that wasn’t shown in the hour-long episode, the complete lack of glamour involved in the shooting of the show. Contestants didn’t sleep on site, but at a hotel a couple of miles away; a bus would fetch them each morning. At 6am. At which point they’d film for 14 hours, the signature and technical bakes happening on Saturday and the showstopper on Sunday, interspersed with around 8 different interviews. Clarke wondered if they’d have the same schedule this year, though there were only three of them.

At the hotel, a harried producer shoved schedules at them, told them to sleep well and make sure their clothes were pressed, and to be ready outside at 6am.

The three of them got dinner at a pub a block from the hotel, greasy burgers and fries drenched in ketchup. Clarke was pleasantly surprised: Murphy was just as quick and scathing in person as he’d been on the show, and when he’d realized that she wouldn’t wilt, he’d been snarky all night. Bellamy had a couple one-liners of his own, and the time practically flew by. She checked her watch later on, surprised to find it was half midnight.

According to the show schedule, they were to pretend today was Christmas Eve.

She could almost believe it. Here she was, in a dingy pub in rural Berkshire, later than she was supposed to be awake, with two men who should be strangers, but who wrote their stories in sugar and butter.

It was nicer than it should’ve been.

It was a sleepy but happy crew that trudged back to the hotel. They bid each other goodnight, already loathe to wake up in a few hours, and collapsed into their separate rooms.

The following morning saw them surprisingly well recovered when the van pulled up. Murphy was in a garish Christmas jumper, and Bellamy another woolen number. Clarke had opted for a turtleneck and corduroy pants—something festive enough to be winter-y, but could still be tossed in a washing machine. She was relieved to find, as they climbed into the van, that none of the previous night’s camaraderie had been lost.

It was easy to fall back into the show.

Immediately when they arrived at Welford Park, the trio was clipped with microphones, handed starched aprons, and instructed where to march. They were pulled aside for initial interviews—segments on what they’d done since their stints on the show—and taking stock of their stations.

Clarke was behind Bellamy in the tent, with Murphy to his left. It was well decorated with boughs of greenery and the scent of pine in the air. In the front of the tent, Mel and Sue had a kettle going, and Mel surreptitiously revealed a drawer with airline liquor, next to the drawer of tea. When Clarke’s name was called, she stepped into the cold, and smiled brightly, waiting for the questions.

“Alright, Clarke, tell the people your name, where you’re from, all that.”

She nodded, waited for the acknowledgment that the camera was rolling.

“My name is Clarke Griffin, from Chelsea.”

“Sloane Square, right?” the producer interrupted, and Clarke felt her smile go stale. She hadn’t lived there in years, but it was where her mother and Marcus still lived.

“Chelsea,” she said firmly, “Where I run an art gallery of my own work. Baking is another art for me, and I’m so happy to be back in the tent.”

“Beautiful,” the producer crooned when the camera man nodded that he’d gotten it. “And you want to win?”

“Of course. Gina’s not here so maybe I have a shot.”

She was probably supposed to say ‘oh no, I’m just happy to be back and get to bake on christmas day’ but she figured her response would get a laugh at home.

“So tell us what you think about your competition then.”

“I feel like half the country would kill to trade place with me, and be trapped in a tent with those two...because they’re such good bakers. No other reason. Of course.” She laughed, wondering if she was being too much yet. It was a fine line to give the producers the material they needed while still being authentic. “Nah, they’re good guys. We had dinner last night, the three of us, and it was so fun to get to reminisce about our time in the tent. It’s just good to be back, and they’re really great people to be in the tent with.”

The producer sighed. “Come on, Clarke, you know how this goes; I need a little more drama out of you.”

Right, right.

“Of course,” she added carefully, like it was just occuring to her, “It’d be the perfect Christmas present to win, wouldn't it? So I’ll have to just do my best to beat them out.”

“Atta girl,” he said, contented. “We’ll grab you after the signature bake.”

Clarke went back into the tent, and Bellamy was next. When he came back in, he had an odd expression on his face, and he was at his station for a moment before coming back to where Clarke was spinning on the stool.

“What’d they ask you?” he asked, quietly, and Clarke realized he was trying not to call attention.

She frowned. “Normal stuff? My name, how I feel about the competition...why?”

“What did you say about dinner?”

“That the three of us in the tent are cool, and ate together,” Clarke frowned, “Why, what is this about?”

Bellamy pulled a hand over his face. “Uh, so I think they’re going to try to make this a thing.”

“What a thing?”

“Us.”

Clarke wasn’t expecting that. “I said the three of us had dinner; that’s it.”

“Okay, but they asked me if I had dinner with you.”

“Well, you were there.”

“No, specifically with you.”

Clarke pursed her lips. She knew GBBO was better than most other reality TV shows in terms of creating drama to get views, which is why this threw her. “Specifically?” she repeated.

“Specifically. And then they asked what I thought about you as a competitor.”

“What’d you say?”

“That I was nervous to go up against two finalists.”

Clarke nodded. “That’s a good dodge.”

“Thanks.”

“Okay, so next interview, just casually namedrop your partner.”

“Yeah, I can’t do that.”

“Sure you can. They’ll feel loved/called out, and the producers leave us out of it.”

“Right, except I’m a really bad liar.”

Clarke blinked. Did ...did that mean he wasn’t dating someone? How was that even possible; he was as close to the dictionary definition of perfect as a mortal man could possibly be. “Are you serious?”

“Yeah, my sister says it’s super obvious when I’m not telling the—”

“No,” Clarke shook her head, “I’m sure you’re the picture of candor.”

“Thanks.”

Before Clarke could come up with a plan B, Sue appeared at the table, ahead of a camera crew. “Okay, tell me quick,” she said, hand over her mic and her voice low and fast and quiet, “Are you two a thing or not?”

Bellamy’s face said ‘told you’ and Clarke closed her eyes. This wasn’t happening. “We just met yesterday,” she whispered.

“They told the crew to look for moments between the two of you, so that’s what they’re doing,” Sue said, rushing. “If this is a thing, that’s fine, but if not I wanted you to know.”

The crew was close enough to hear now and Bellamy and Sue both took a step away from Clarke’s station.

“The Barnsley Club,” Sue said loudly. “Can’t believe you got tickets to see the Tykes play; those things fly off the table like savory biscuits!”

“Yeah,” Bellamy said quickly, “My roommate from University is dating their goalkeeper, so he got me a couple tickets to next week’s game.”

“Oh,” Sue looked genuinely thrilled, coming around the table to touch Bellamy’s arm lightly. “You did go through with it! University?”

“Yeah,” Bellamy said, almost sheepishly, shrugging a bit as he tucked his hands into his pockets.

“That’s marvelous,” Sue squeezed his shoulder, and Clarke smiled softly to herself. The woman’s antics hid genuine fondness, and she remembered how carefully the hosts looked after the contestants; it seemed this round would be no different. Too late, Clarke realized one of the cameras was still on her, catching her smile as she looked after Bellamy and Sue.

Murphy came back and they shot the introductory clips of the trio walking into the tent, shaking out their aprons and getting settled, as if they hadn’t been in the tent for an hour already. Then Mary and Paul walked in, and Mel and Sue began their introductions.

“Hello, bakers,” Mel sang, and Sue waved energetically. “And welcome back to the tent. Is...hang on a minute, is anything different around here?”

The judges and contestants laughed obediently as the hosts squinted at the tent around them, dripping in festive decorations.

“Different estate maybe?” Sue suggested.

Mel ran to the door, opened the flap and shook her head. “Still Welford Park.”

“Different lights?”

“No, they broke just before we started shooting, so we know they’re the same ones.”

“Oh, you know what, maybe it’s all the fairy lights.”

“Don’t be daft, Mel, it’s Christmas; nothing could be more ordinary than fairy lights.”

“Hmm.”

“Hmm indeed.”

“You know, I have tried a new mascara.”

“I was going to say, your eyes are practically popping out of your head.”

“I don’t know that that was a compliment?”

“I don’t know that it was either.”

Both hosts shrugged happily and turned from each other to the room again.

“Some mysteries endure till the end of time,” Sue said, and Mel coughed to hide a genuine laugh.

“Anyways, we’re delighted to have you back, bakers,” Mel said sweetly, “And Paul and Mary have prepared some very special challenges for you today.”

“Yes, let’s get into it,” Mel interrupted, “For your signature challenge, Paul and Mary would love for you to make the thing that brings us downstairs on a chilly winter morning: cinnamon rolls. Sounds simple, yes, but what the judges are looking for here is how well you can manage your flavors.”

“Judges will be looking for a buttery, sugary mess of flavor, distinct rolls and the perfect light icing to balance out the richness of the bake...I can feel my waistband expanding just thinking about it.”

“You have two and a half hours for this bake,” Mel interjected while everyone laughed. “On your marks.”

“Get set,” Sue called.

“Bake!”

The rush of adrenaline was back and Clarke let out a slow breath as she pulled pans out for her station. She could hear Bellamy and Murphy busying themselves in front of her, and soon enough the camera crew would start their rounds.

“Murphy,” Paul Hollywood was in front of Murphy’s station and his voice boomed throughout the tent. “Good to see you again.”

“Ah it’s good to be seen,” Murphy said easily, winking at Mary as Sue snorted.

“Mister Murphy,” Mary said primply. “What are you preparing for us today.”

“I am making eggnog cinnamon rolls,” Murphy said, and Clarke could hear the pride on his voice. “With some white chocolate sprinkled in with the cinnamon.”

Mary gasped delightedly. “Well that is _very_ interesting, indeed. Will there be any rum in your eggnog?”

“Cognac,” Murphy said, pulling over the bottle to show the judges.

“Happy to see you’re still taking chances with your flavors,” Paul said, but his voice sounded like a challenge.

Murphy just smiled lazily. “It’s not a chance when I know it’s good,” he said easily, holding Paul’s gaze. The older man hummed a bit, then nodded shortly.

“Alright then, good luck.”

“Thank you much.”

They moved to Bellamy next.  

“Alright, Blake,” Mel said, “The country is poised to fall in love with you all over again, so tell us: what are you making?”

Bellamy inclined his head, a bashful gesture like he couldn’t understand the fuss, and Clarke hid a smile, busying herself with her preparation.

“I’m making chai-spiced cinnamon rolls,” Bellamy said, and Clarke could hear the nervousness on his voice.

“I like that,” Paul said, nodding approvingly. “You haven’t done something new, since the cinnamon is already in the bake, you’re just bringing it into a different light.”

“Yeah,” Bellamy agreed. “So in addition to the cinnamon, they’ll have cardamom, ginger, cloves, and cracked black pepper.”

“Pepper?” Mary said, surprised, but Bellamy just nodded. “Hmm. And is that fresh or ground ginger.”

“Ground and candied,” Bellamy said, “It gives a really great texture.”

“Well I’m very excited to try these,” Mary beamed, and then they moved on.  

“Now you’ve chosen a somewhat unconventional method.”

Clarke looked up to see Mary just in front of her, staring curiously at the dutch oven on the stove, in which Clarke was mixing all her ingredients.

“I found that I can heat the milk, oil, and sugar in here,” she said, stirring, “and then I’ll add the yeast, let it rest, then when the flower goes directly in, I can do my proving in here. I don’t have to transfer it from stove, to a normal mixing bowl, and so on.”

“That’s very clever,” Mary said appraisingly. “Tell us, Clarke, what’re you baking for us today?”

“I’ll be doing pistachio, orange, dark chocolate, cinnamon rolls.”

Sue whistled, and Mel leaned forward, conspiratorially. ”You’re sure you’re not forgetting one thing? Those ingredients are it?”

“I think they’re plenty,” Mary laughed and Clarke joined.

“It does sound like a lot, but the pistachio is actually such a subtle flavor. And the orange/cinnamon and orange/chocolate combinations are just so classically festive, that it works really well.”

“You’re usually spot on with your flavors,” Paul said, and Clarke smiled at the compliment. “So you’re right, it does seem like a lot, but we’ll trust you on this.”

“Thank you, judges.”

And then they were gone.

Time scampered away from her as her rolls were mixed, rolled, proved, and baked. All too soon, the fifteen minute warning came, and she and the other bakers were waving baking sheets at their rolls, willing them to cool enough to ice. Clarke carefully added orange juice to her icing and wondered if Murphy and Bellamy were changing their icing or just sticking with a classic.

Mel and Sue called that time was up and Clarke stepped back from her station.

Okay, so they were a little rustic, but she knew the taste was insane.

Paul and Mary said the same—a little rough on the presentation, but her flavors were bang on. They thought Murphy’s looked immaculate, but could’ve done with a little more nutmeg; Bellamy’s looked and tasted as they should, but the dough was a little more pastry than roll.

All told, they were going into the technical evenly matched. They had a quick break to grab some air while they were interviewed again. Clarke said she thought it had gone well, that it was clear it was an even playing field, and ignored the question about how it was to work behind Bellamy.

If the frustration on his face was any indication of how his interview went, they’d tried the same line of questions with him. But the show went on; stations were cleaned and the contestants stood at attention when Paul, Mary, Mel and Sue came back into the front of the tent.

“Alright, now it’s time for the technical challenge, and, Judges, while we’d love to have you around, that defeats the purpose,” Mel said cheerily.

“Yes, yes,” Sue interjected. “Go off and find some mistletoe somewhere. We’ll see you in a bit.”

The tent was quiet once Mary and Paul had exited, and the hosts turned around.

“Right, now that they’re gone,” Sue said excitedly, “for your technical, bakers, the judges would very much like for you to make one of Mary’s own recipes.”

“Yes, we’ll say ‘we wish _choux_ a merry christmas’...” Mel trailed off and shook her head. “I don’t know where I was going with that, but yes, this recipe involves choux pastry.”

“Not only pastry, but also ganache, caramel and some intricate chocolate work for the decorations.”

“Shall we put them out of their misery?”

“Yes, let’s,” Mel agreed. “It’s a Choux Wreath.”

“You have two hours on the clock for this bake so on your marks.”

“Get set.”

“Bake.”

Clarke pulled back the gingham cloth to find the ingredients underneath it...nothing she hadn’t seen or used before. A quick glance at the recipe card and the choux seemed easy enough, but she guessed the trick would be in getting an even rise on the pastries as they baked, and then making the perfect creme patissiere.

Two hours went by like two minutes, but it was nothing like Clarke’s first time in the tent. Gone was the stress, pressure to win, and in its place was just a genuine delight to be there. She guessed Murphy and Bellamy shared the sentiment, because they chatted through the whole challenge. When they brought up the pastries to be judged, Clarke was surprised to find she genuinely didn’t care who’d won.

Murphy did.

Mary though the chocolate decorations were superb, and the his choux buns were taller than hers and Bellamy’s. Bellamy’s caramel didn’t quite hold the wreath together so he placed third, and Clarke fell solidly in the middle.

At that point, she felt the exhaustion creeping in. The excitement of the day, plus the length of it, plus the lack of sleep from the previous night, it all added up. But they still had interviews, so she smiled and said (mostly) what they wanted to hear.

The van was quiet going back to the hotel.

They three agreed to order room service and call it an early night, but Clarke made it to her bed before the menu, and when she woke up, room service no longer delivered. She wondered if it would be worse to go for another greasy burger, or risk a salad from a hole-in-the-wall pub. She decided she wasn’t about to be that girl and swung her jacket over her shoulders.

As she walked quietly past the boys’ rooms, she heard a muffled voice coming from one of them.

“What do you mean you don’t deliver room service after 10pm...why would anyone order room service before 10pm?...no, no, I know...okay, yeah, have a good night.”

Clarke knocked on Bellamy’s door, determined to not laugh when he answered it. Of course, she needn’t have worried, because he answered the door in pajamas, and logical reactions flew out of her head.

Did she say pajamas?

No, because this was a pajama, singular, no shirt. And now Clarke had to live with the knowledge that Bellamy Blake was just as built as a million faceless people on twitter had hoped he would be. Also his hair was rumpled and looked like he’d just woken up and it was truly unfair for any person to look adorable when they should look smushed and exhausted. With great strength of will, she jerked her eyes up to Bellamy’s; he was watching hers, something like amusement on his face. Then he frowned a bit, registering the time, and Clarke was keenly aware of the fact that she probably looked like trash, and desperate trash at that.

“I heard you yelling at the front desk,” she rushed to explain, “I fell asleep as soon as I was in my room and had the same conversation ten minutes ago...Anyways, I’m thinking of going back to the pub. Want to come with?”

The door closed.

Clarke was wondering where she went wrong—when, not if—but then the door swung open again and Bellamy was pulling yet another sweater over his head. She wondered how many of those he’d packed, and if his suitcase was actually a Mary Poppins bag for knitted sweaters, and then she registered that he was wearing glasses.

He hadn’t been when he’d answered the door, or earlier during the competition.

“Usually wear contacts,” he said, and she realized she’d been staring.

“Why?”

He shrugged. “Easier?”

“I like these,” she said, without thinking. She realized she’d said it when he reacted, surprise working its way into a slight flush around his ears.

“Uh, thanks.”

“Yep.”

They walked down to the pub.

Along the way, they fell into conversation, but it was tinged differently than their interaction on the train. It wasn’t quite familiarity, but it was an easy comfort. Like being with Bellamy was worlds simpler than it should have been, and made more sense than it had a right to.

They ordered onion rings and cheese curds and promised that they’d have something green when they got back home

And that was like a pause button for Clarke.

Because in 24 hours, she’d go back to London, and he’d stay on that train and keep going farther and farther south. Clarke frowned at a water droplet, tracing a path down the outside of her glass, pooling at the table.

She’d known him for less than that time, 24 hours. And in that day, they’d been filmed, covered in flour, and judged, barely spoken to each other. But sitting across the table from him, this felt right. How could that be?

“I know,” he said quietly, and Clarke looked up to read his face. The same uncertainty was written there, the same conflict but conviction. That this was right, they were right, no matter how ludicrous.

“So what do we do?” she asked.

He didn’t say anything, because he didn’t know.

The waitress brought them two hampers of fried food, and they ate. On the walk back from the pub, Clarke walked a little closer than she probably should’ve. It was cold out, and she liked walking with Bellamy, liked being beside him. Almost tested both of them and stepped even closer, but didn’t. Because tomorrow night she went back to London, and he went South.

They said goodnight quietly, eyes full of questions and wondering, but minds a little louder. Clarke slept restlessly.

In the morning, she put on the same outfit as the show mandated, and pursed her lips at the bags under her eyes in her reflection. It was supposed to be Christmas, or look like Christmas, and she made her face smile.

It was hollow comfort that Bellamy didn’t look much better.

“How’re you feeling today, Clarke, going into the showstopper?”

Tired. Confused. Desperately in need of tea.

Clarke smiled at the producer. “I’m excited! It’s going to be a long day, but I’m really hopeful of winning the judges over.”

“And the other bakers? What do you think they have in store for them?”

“Murphy has definitely shown how good he is, since he pulled ahead yesterday in the technical. And Bellamy just puts his heart into his bakes, so I know whatever they both put out, it’ll be amazing. I’m just happy to be in the tent with them.”

The producer looked disappointed, but Clarke wasn’t about to be baited today.

Inside the tent, she couldn’t tell if the air was different of that was just her. The holly felt droopy, and the lights felt affronting; she chalked it up to the dryness of the air.  

“Alright, bakers,” Sue said dramatically, “it’s showstopper time. For your showstopper, Paul and Mary would love for you to make a Christmas plum cake.”

“Ah yes,” Mel cooed, “The classic Christmas Dinner dessert. Now, your plum cake may or may not contain actual plums, since that name is just the origin and we can shorten it to ‘fruit cake’.”

“Oh good, that saves me a lot of breath. Oh wait—”

“Your cake can be left in a mold, or baked freeform, and it can contain whatever fruity flavors you’d like but it must be covered with marzipan and decorated with royal icing. You will have six hours for this bake, so we’d better get cracking; on your marks.”

“Get set,” Sue sang.

“Bake!” they bellowed together. Six hours sounded like a lot, but the cake had to cook in four, and cool for at least an hour, and Clarke had to get marzipan made and set, then decorated with as intricate a design as she could manage, so she knew the time would fly. Halfway through the first mix of her ingredients, a shadow fell over her station.

“Can we talk?” he said quietly, and there was an intensity in his eyes that she felt through the core of her.

“After six hours?”

“I was thinking when the bakes are in the oven.”

It would be tight, but they’d make it work. She nodded, and the corners of Bellamy’s mouth lifted in a nervous smile, then he spun back to his station before the cameras came over.  

She finished her cake first, wiping her hands on her apron and signaling to the crew that she was going outside for air, needed to not be followed. She circled around to behind the tent, the area not outfitted with clear windows, and shivered. It was cold—of course it was cold; it was early December—and Clarke wrapped her arms around herself. She closed her eyes, the crisp air freezing through her body, but it felt clean.

A couple minutes later, she heard the tent flap open and shut, and the crunch of rotting leaves underfoot as Bellamy rounded the tent.

He stopped just in front of her.

Now that they were here, now that it was the middle of the day and they weren’t half asleep or followed by cameras, she wasn’t sure what to say.

Bellamy cleared his throat. “You asked me,” he said carefully, “last night, what I wanted to do.”

Clarke nodded.

“And the thing is, I know exactly what I want to do. From the moment I saw you on the train, hanging out with you and Murphy, watching you bake and seeing how good you are, and how proud you are...it’s like I don’t know how I’m supposed to go back home and not get to have this.”

“Have what?” Clarke asked, knowing what he was feeling but not saying.

Bellamy shook his head. “Seeing you laugh. Learning all the different faces you make, figuring out what you like to eat when there’s more that one option. Just you.”

Just her.

And it sounded simple, it did, and Clarke wasn’t sure whether she should cry or smile because what were the odds that she met someone whom her heart recognized, and it was a fluke, and fleeting.

“It’s so easy,” she said, trying to ignore that her voice was shaking, “being with you. And it’s so unfair that that can’t last.”

When she said it, she saw it play across his face, that he understood exactly what she meant. She shook her head. “But none of this is news, Bellamy, right? We knew this last night.”

He nodded and she could see his jaw working. He was just at sea as she was. But then he wasn’t. He was in front of her in two steps, his large hands coming up to her face. Her eyes fluttered closed when his cold fingers touched her cheek, and she blinked, loving how he looked up close.

“You asked me what I wanted to do,” he said, a breath away, voice low, “This was it.”

When he kissed her, she tasted the fruit cake batter, and was swept away with the intensity of him. His kiss was sweet from orange peel, strong from ginger, rich from brandy. Perfect from Bellamy. When he pulled back, she realized she was leaning into him, chasing after him, and he had flour on his jumper from where she’d clenched her fists, needing him closer. Clarke ran her tongue over her lips, and she could still taste him.

“How far,” she breathed, forcing her eyes open to find his, “from Cardiff to London?”

“Not even three hours,” he told her, his voice just as affected as hers.

“So you’re closer than brandy snaps?” she said hopefully, “Or a puff pastry?”

And Bellamy might’ve laughed, but then he pulled her to him, his arms around her waist and she fell into his jumper, breathing in the smells of the bake, and wool, and Bellamy.

Sorbet took more than 3 hours, and so did most good loaves. Croissants took longer, and so did macarons, if you made a big enough batch. And though she had no way to know for sure, she was certain that the man in her arms was sweeter that all of those, and even more worth the wait.  


End file.
